


Lessons

by Portia77



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eleven was an adult when she escaped, F/M, I'm so sorry for writing this, I'm taking the express train to HELL when i die, No underage, almost certainly fucked up relationships, i wouldn't go there, if you're david harbour pls don't judge me, jeezus please don't judge me, started out as a kink how did it end up like this, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:14:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portia77/pseuds/Portia77
Summary: In which Eleven emerges from Hawkins Lab as a grown woman, and still ends up living under the protection of Hawkins' Chief of Police, Jim Hopper.Things get complicated.





	1. A kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck. I didn't mean to even post this. This shouldn't be taken seriously at all. It's just meant to (eventually) be smutty, sexy fun times. 
> 
> ENJOY (if you can).

It all starts by watching TV.

Sometimes Eleven likes reading, but for the most part she can’t be bothered read the books Hopper brings for her, nor does she much care for listening to the crackling radio all day. The noises sound jumbled, and music is foreign to her.

But she likes TV.

It’s more than strange pictures and wild imagery. It’s more than just a box with people inside (which is what she first thought it was, and she doesn’t dare tell Hopper that, feeling foolish at the memory).

It shows her feelings. Things she has never felt before. On the TV, people showcase their rage and fury, their heartache and sorrow, their humor and wit.

But what people especially like to do on TV, El finds, is _kiss._

The act is completely alien to her the first time she witnesses it. A kiss, until this point, has only been a sparingly-used gift bestowed by Papa on her forehead, and it was never altogether pleasant. That’s what surprises her most about the TV-kisses.

The first time she sees a man and woman kiss, the lady seems to _like_ it. And he—the man—kisses her on the _mouth_. Not the forehead like Papa does. And it isn’t cold and chaste, over in half a second. The man and woman kiss on TV for many seconds, mouths melding and moving against one another in a way that makes Eleven feel faint of breath.

She touches her fingers to her lips and presses them softly. She puckered them a bit, the way the lady does, and wonders what her lips would feel like to someone else. She wonders what lips would feel like against _hers_.

“A kiss,” she whispered to herself, and tells herself that that’s her word of the day, as Hopper calls them.

And then, because he’s already on her mind, she thinks about kissing _Hopper_. He even looks a little like the man on screen who swoops the lady in his arms and mashes his mouth to hers all wild and a bit silly-looking.

But kissing keeps coming back on screen, and soon enough they don’t look so silly to her any more.

Elle decides in one swift breath that she will get her first kiss—and it will be from Jim Hopper.

It takes her weeks to build her courage, which is silly since she can’t see why a kiss could be so wrong. But Eleven can’t decide how best to go about it.

Does she ask for one nicely, the way Hopper tells her to ask for things? Or does she simply take it, the way her life in Hawkins Lab has necessitated?

Her head, and her newly-found manners, tell her to ask nicely, but the thought of being told no makes her second-guess herself.

 _But why should he be mad?_ She thinks to herself one afternoon, while waiting for Hopper to come home. He is, after all, the only person she might get to try this kiss on. And Hopper has a nice mouth, she decides. Full lips and even though his beard might tickle, she doesn’t think it would be a bad thing.

Not a bad thing at all, really.

Eleven plans to kiss Hopper the second he walks in the door, like she’s seen on some of her favourite TV shows, when the _husband_ comes home and is greeted at the front door by his _wife_ with a kiss. 

But Hopper had stormed in today, grumbling as he always does, and she panicked at the last second. He hung his hat the hook by the door, like always, and pulled his belt out from the loops on his pants, dropping the heavy leather pouch he calls a holster onto the shelving near the door.

“Hey Elle.” He marches past her, straight to the fridge to grab a can of beer (like always). Hopper is a man of routine.

“How was your day?” he asks, even though her answer is always the same:

“I stayed inside.”

As he flopped onto the couch, Hopper slurped his drink loudly, swallowing half the can's contents in one go, and lowered it with a sigh. “Yeah, I’m sorry. My day was boring, too.”

 _At least you get to leave,_ she thinks sourly. But Eleven pushes the anger away. She doesn’t want to be angry when she kisses him.

Heart hammering in her chest, Elle makes her way to the couch with slow, soft steps, until she’s finally at the couch, slipping into the seat next to him. Hopper is busy staring into his can of beer, mulling something over, too busy to notice the timid look she gives him.

Elle needs to get his attention before she can do anything. She manages to squeak out his name--“Hopper?”

“Hmm?”

He looked over at her, and suddenly, _she’s doing it,_ she’s leaning in to touch her mouth to his, just the way they do it on TV, and though Hopper frowns deeply at her, his lips moving as though to say something, she gets to him before he can speak.

She kisses him.

Things are very still for a minute, as she realizes she has no idea what to do next. For the most fleeting of seconds, Eleven thinks she feels his mouth press against hers, and hears something like a moan stuck in the back of Hopper’s throat (she wonders idly if he is getting a cold), but then he’s wrenching himself from her grasp like her mouth is made of living fire.

“Elle!” he half-shouts, half-whispers, like someone might hear. His hand is covering his mouth, his eyes wider than she’s ever seen them.

“What is it?” she asks with a frown. “Did I do it wrong?”

“Do—do _what?”_

“Kiss.” She says it like it’s the most simple answer in the world—and it is. It was a simple thing, she decides, thinking back on the way his mouth had felt (warm and kind of dry but also soft and firm all at once).

She doesn’t get why it could make Hopper so mad.

“What—Elle, where did you learn to do that?” Hopper is still standing, now several paces away from her, like she might spring up and attack his mouth with her kisses.

The thought makes her unhappy. But this unhappiness is not like any she’s felt before. This unhappiness is…hurtful. And angry. And tastes sour on her tongue.

“On TV.” Eleven stands up, fists balled at her sides. “Why are you mad?”

“I’m… Jesus Christ, I’m not _mad,_ I’m just…” Hopper rubs his hands over his face roughly, and he blows out a loud gust of air as he does.

“Look, kisses are… Kisses are _special,_ okay? You can’t just— _kiss_ people when you feel like it. It’s a romantic thing.”

“Romantic?”

“Yeah, you know, lovey-dovey, holding hands, going for long walks in the moonlight. Kissing is romantic.”

Eleven frowns more, before marching over to him and seizing one of his large hands in hers, giving it an emphatic wave.

“Holding hands!” She dragged him over to the window, and he surprisingly let her. Eleven points with her free hand to the moonlight coming in from outside the window. “Walking in the moon’s light!”

“Moonlight,” says Hopper, distractedly. He’s looking at their laced fingers with a frown, and gently untwines their fingers with a sigh. “Romance is more than that. I don’t know how to explain it. Kisses are for people who like each other.”

Eleven makes a hurt face.

“ _I_ like you.”

“I know, I like you too, but not like _that._ It’s like… Fuck.” Hopper stuck his hands on his hips and swiveled about the room, searching for inspiration.

“Kissing—kissing like _that—_ is for when two people are _attracted_ to each other. They feel a sort of…connection, you know?” He moves one hand back and forth in the air between him and Elle, as though to demonstrate this so-called connection.

She just blinks at him.

“No, I guess not. Fucking Brenner…” Hopper scowled for a moment. “Okay. Kissing isn’t bad or anything. It’s just for people who want to go on _dates_ or get married. You know what dates are?”

Eleven nods slowly.

“Good. So you understand?”

“I understand,” she says, but she’s still mighty unhappy about it. And the angry-hurtful-sourness in her heart hasn’t vanished. “What about _not_ kissing like that?”

“Huh?”

Eleven stares up at him urgently. “You said kissing like _that_ is for people attracted to other people. What about other kisses?”

“Oh.” Hopper blushes a bit. “Well, I guess… A kiss on the cheek or the forehead, you know, could be something from your mom or your grandma.”

Elle can tell how he omits suggesting a kiss from her _papa,_ for which she is quite relieved.

She mulls this over with a pensive frown. She certainly doesn’t want more of papa’s type kisses. Those were not nice like the ones she saw on TV.

Not like the one she just shared with Hopper.

But if that’s the only type of kiss he would offer her…

“Okay.” Eleven stands up, and walks over to him. “No mouth-kisses.”

Hopper makes a face of relief. “Thank—”

But then Eleven leans in decisively, stretches on her tiptoes because she must, now that he’s standing, leaning against the windowsill, and she aims for his cheek—she really does! _—_ but at the last second, he turns his face to her, his confused eyes staring down at her as she leans in…

And they kiss mouth-to-mouth, just like before.

This time, he is much faster to pull away.

“Eleven!” he shouts, and she knows he’s mad because he’s using her full name. Hopper doesn’t like her full name. It makes him sad, she thinks.

“I tried to kiss you like grandma!”

“You shouldn’t kiss me _at all!”_ he protests loudly, and she’s never heard him so urgent and fervent with his words before.

“Why not?”

“Because…because I’m not your grandma!”

Eleven huffed. “But I want to kiss you! It seems like fun.”

“It _is_ fun, but—”

“If it is fun, why can’t we kiss?”

Hopper switches tactics. “I’m too old to be kissing you.”

Eleven wrinkled her nose. “Old people cannot kiss?”

“No, they _can_. That’s not the point.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m too old _for you._ You should kiss men your age.”

“But there aren’t any here.”

“Right. But that doesn’t mean you can just…kiss me instead.”

“Because you’re old?”

“Right.”

“But mama and grandmas are older, and they get kisses?”

Hopper makes a frustrated noise. “Well, _yeah_ , but those kisses are different.”

“So why can’t we kiss like that?”

“Because we can’t.”

“But why?”

“Because!”

“But _why?”_

“Just— _FINE!”_ Hopper threw his hands in the air and stormed into the kitchen, slamming the beer can onto the counter, and he marched back to her. “You want a kiss like mama? Here.”

And he took her face in his hands, warm and gentle despite his obvious irritation with her, and tucked her chin upwards until his lips were against the smooth skin of her forehead.

Eleven sucked in a breath.

Hopper released her with a soft exhale, and took a few more steps back. His chest moved up-down-up-down as they stared at one another.

“That was nice,” Eleven says, feeling a bit guilty for reasons she doesn’t fully understand, but definitely not enough to not want to try again. Eventually. When Hopper isn't looking at her like he secretly threw out all her Eggos while she wasn't looking.

Hopper turns away from her and moves to the kitchen, one hand on his hip as he drags the other down his face.

“Yeah, yeah… Let’s eat dinner already. _Holy hell_ …”  


	2. Diet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper wants to go on a diet. El does not. Guess who gets their way?

“D-diet?”

The word is clearly unfamiliar to her, and sounding it out is a struggle.

Hopper slumped over on the couch, lifting his hat up and off his head with one hand before tossing it aside.

“Yeah. Diet. It means, uh, not eating so much bad food. Like candy or chips.”

“Like Eggos?” El asks, horrified. But Hopper just laughed lowly, shaking his head in disbelief because that _would_ be the first thing to come to mind.

“Yeah, none of your Eggos. Not for me. _You_ can eat all the Eggos you want, though.”

Eleven came and sat down next to him on their couch. Her close proximity made him tense slightly; since the kissing fiasco, El had tried to make many more similar advances, all of them sweetly intentioned and curious, and Hopper had been able to resist (most) of them. But there were a few kisses either first thing in the morning or sometimes late at night and a few in the middle of the afternoon, times when he’d caved at her gentle insistence and given in to a chaste kiss on the cheek or the mouth.

But kissing was clearly the last thing on her mind right then. El stared at him now like he was a newly-discovered bug and she couldn’t decide whether or not to catch it or kill it.

“ _Why_ …do you have a diet?” she asks, tilting her head at him. “Why eat no Eggos?”

“I have to,” Hopper sighs, tugging the belt of his pants through the loops. “If I don’t, I’m gonna get fat. Or fatt _er_.”

“Fat?” Eleven has heard this word before. She’s heard it applied to round pink pigs and the white gooey part of roast beef that Hopper tells her not to eat. “Pigs are fat.”

Hopper tossed his head back and laughed some more.

“Yeah, what does that make me, I wonder.” He chuckles a bit, shrugging out of his button-down shirt and tossing it aside, revealing a white tee-shirt underneath. The smile he makes for El makes her heart do a weird flip-flop thing, and it’s not entirely unpleasant.

But she’s too consumed by his words to worry much on the flip-flop of her heart. “You are not a pig.” Eleven scrunches her nose. “Why do you _have_ to diet?”

“I’m trying to shave off a couple pounds, alright? Nothing to get uppity about.” Hopper patted his belly, and it made a warm thump-thump-thump sound when he did.

“But _why?”_ Eleven folded her arms across her chest. “Why no Eggos? It seems not fun.”

“Look, El, I might not be able to control the fact that I’m getting _older,_ but I have some pride.” Hopper rubs the back of his neck, looking very much like he wishes the conversation would change. “Not looking forward to being some ugly old fat dude who drinks and smokes all day.”

“You’re _not_ ugly.” Eleven leans in to his face, as though her closeness will make her words more true. He can smell her breath, sweet as syrup. “Pretty,” she says firmly, and pokes two fingers to his shoulder.

Hopper only smirks a bit, amused at the earnest expression on her face. “I’ll take your word for it.”

When El saw that her words hadn’t persuaded him, that he was still bent on this cursed diet idea of his, she made a face of extreme frustration and stormed off to the kitchen.

_Shit, what now?_ Hopper moaned loudly as he flopped back into the sofa cushions.

“El? _El._ Come back here, it’s not a big deal.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, scowling. “It’s nice you think I’m pretty. Okay? That’s real nice.”

There was rattling in the kitchen, but otherwise she didn’t answer, and after deliberating for a minute or so, he left her to it.

It was a few minutes later when she resurfaced, armed with a plate-load of Eggos smothered in whip cream.

El held up one Eggo from her stack and offered it to him. “Bite,” she instructed, and _damn,_ his mouth did water a bit at the sight of it. Nothing but green beans and tuna-salad and—oh god—the amount of cooked carrots he’s choked down. Doesn’t he deserve this, this tiny morsel of unhealthy, sugary goodness?

(It doesn’t hurt, of course, that it’s El who is offering, with doe-eyes and an eager nod).

“Well, how do you say no to that?” Hopper muttered, and let her slide the waffle in as far as it would go before biting down and chewing slowly, savouring every bite.

His eyes rolled back in his head. “Oh god, that’s good.”

Eleven beamed at him, looking quite pleased with herself. “Another bite,” she encourages, and soon enough he’s finished that one, and she’s offering him the second. And much the same way, she coaxes him to eat that one too.

When she holds up the third, Hopper’s stomach starts to protest.

“Uh, no, El. I don’t think—”

“Bite!” she urges, and he takes a much smaller chunk of the waffle than he did before. Hopper makes a show of patting his gut, which will surely burst open any second now.

“Alright, no more. I’m going to spout a curly tail and start squealing soon.”

Eleven either doesn’t get the joke or doesn’t care about it. Probably both. She’s still got two-thirds of unfinished Eggo in her outstretched hand.

“Eat it,” she says gently. “Please.”

Hopper grimaced, eyeing the waffle with doubt. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

And with a few more nausea-inducing swallows, he’s all but licked her hands clean, rendering him into a massive food-coma. His pants feel too tight – or maybe his stomach a bit too large.

“Oh Christ,” he mutters, leaning back on the couch, letting his head fall back so he’s looking at the ceiling of their tiny log-cabin-home. “Why’d I let you talk me into that?”

All of the sudden, two hands move to the hem of his shirt and tug, firm but gentle, until it’s untucked from his pants. Hopper’s eyes snapped open and he damn-near kinked his neck to get a look at her.

Eleven is wearing that bold, unafraid set to her jaw, half her curls in her face, and it makes her look lovely. Lovely and fierce and kind.

But Hopper can only sit there and gape as the button of his pants suddenly pops off without a touch from either her hands or his, and he’d complain about her using her powers to undo his damn _pants_ , but hell, that feels so much better, being able to breathe again.

“El, but you can’t just—”

But Eleven isn’t done shocking him yet. After wiping the trickle of blood with her sleeve, her hands reach over and—before he can protest—she’s started petting his belly, rubbing it with one hand, making soft circles on his skin. Up and down, round and round. There’s no pattern to her movements, but they all serve the same purpose: making him feel better.

“El!” he protests, trying to push her away much too late. Stubbornly, she refuses, brushing off his touch and shuffling closer to him.

“No more diet,” she said firmly, running her hand from side to side along his underbelly, her hand slipped under his shirt. The queasy feeling he’d been suffering starts to abate, but he’s still so tired from his day and from overeating.

“No more diet,” he agrees reluctantly, wonders briefly what Flo will say when she finds out, but the thought vanishes in seconds. Deep down, Hopper knows he would agree to pretty much anything Elle asks for at this point, so long as she keeps touching him.

“Pretty,” he hears her whisper, his eyes closed. Hopper snorted.

“Right, sure. Real pretty.”

Hopper is so relaxed, so content, that he doesn’t realize what happening until it’s already, well, _happened_. His heart rate comes up just a touch and his pants start to feel strained and oh hell, that’s _his_ dick hardening like some teenage boy on a first date. 

Fuck.

And since Eleven is stroking his tummy, curled so close to him, there’s no way she doesn’t see the pressure around his zipper, see the way his pants have started to bulge more than a little.

Hopper shifts uncomfortably, ready to get up and retreat to his room for the night and definitely _not_ jerk off because he knows he’ll only be able to think about this scene right here, when El’s hand reaches down and so _damn_ gently, she begins rubbing him over the seam of his pants.

Hopper’s eyes pop open then, and he lurches upright, moving to stand, but an invisible hand pushes him back down to the couch.

“Stay,” she whispers, and keeps sliding her hand back and forth over his crotch.

Hopper’s voice is hoarse and raspy, like it’s been unused for a long time. “El. This isn’t… This isn’t appropriate.”

It’s like the kissing conversation all over again, but this time, he can’t cave to her demands. “You have to stop this,” he tries to tell her.

Only, like a moron, he doesn’t push her away, and he doesn’t turn his head when she leans in and kisses his mouth tenderly.

“Does it feel good?” she asks, and he could weep with laughter at the absurdity of it all. _Does it feel good?_ Even if he wasn’t completely starved for sexual attention, and he most assuredly _was,_ the sight of her bow-shaped mouth puckering to kiss his lips while her hands massaged his bloated gut and raging boner was more than enough to make him feel like he was in heaven.

In no time at all, his breath started to get ragged and rough, both hands outstretched along the back of the sofa, clenched in fists to try to prevent himself from doing something stupid like touching himself or, maybe worse, touching El.

El seems to sense the urgency of it all, and her hands start squeezing a bit harder, moving a bit faster, and when she kisses him she makes sure to keep her mouth there, like she knows innately that he needs something to moan into.

She won’t feel his dick get wet, so there’s no need to warn her, and he doesn’t think he could’ve anyways, with how fast it came and passed. One second he was grunting and moaning with every push and pull of her hand over the fabric of his pants, the next he was spurting into his underwear like a fourteen-year-old boy, yet to grow his first chest hairs.

“Fuck,” he swore roughly, grabbing her hands with one of his to stop her. She hadn’t realized the moment passed, and made to keep touching him, but Hopper stopped her with one swift kiss.

“That’s enough of that, hon,” he mumbled, and got to his feet on jelly-legs, wobbling over to his bedroom. “See you in the morning,” he said over his shoulder, unable to stomach looking at her again, too scared to see what he’d find. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these have been tame but the steaminess will kick up a notch in the next chapter, promise. I like a slow build though.


	3. Point of no return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything changes and Hopper can't even bring himself to be mad about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all y'all who reviewed on the last chapter. Feeling SO BLESSED rn, so this kinky chapter goes out to you!! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Weeks pass and everything has changed.

Ever since the incident with the Eggos, El has become…pushy. She was never exactly subtle with things, but now she verges on being outright demanding, sometimes rude.

And it would bother Hopper if she were being a little shithead or something, but she’s not. The only thing she really asks of him is, well, _him_.

Hopper learns early on that he fascinates El, and not exactly in a wholesome familial-way. Every chance she has, she’s touching him or kissing him or hugging him. And like the affection-starved animal he is, Hopper caves to her every whim.

Gone are the days of his half-hearted attempts at resistance. Nowadays, Hopper will smile and enfold her in his embrace when he comes home, relishing in the feel of a warm body pressed tight against him. And with such minimal coaxing, El will cup his bearded cheek to turn his head to face hers, to press her lips against his, seeking him out as though she likes this part of her day as much as he does, which both baffles and amazes Hopper. 

Their evenings are different now. Before, it was mostly Hopper rambling things to El and El interrupting to ask the most random and bizarre questions imaginable, her train of thought obscure and seemingly random. But it’s _different_ now. Their lessons in front of the fireplace are almost always punctuated by her kissing his neck or his face or his mouth. Hopper lets her make the move to him every time, refusing to approach her in case the time comes when she doesn’t want it, doesn’t want _him_.

But he also eventually stops keeping the kisses close-mouthed, starts licking at her lower lip instead. And he doesn’t keep his hands at his sides any more either, lifting them to cradle her face or slide his fingers into her hair.

The first time he tries to slide his tongue in her mouth, El makes a noise of shock and protest.

“What—what was _that?”_ Her fingers touched her parted lips in a moment of surprise.

Hopper damns himself to all the fiery pits of hell as he talks. “It’s how adults kiss. With tongue. You have to open your mouth, but we don’t have to do that…. Shit, we don’t have to do any of it.”

But El, as soon as she understood it was a normal thing, stuck out her chin defiantly and pushed herself forwards, and when they kiss, her mouth is open and her tongue slides willingly against his, perhaps a bit clumsy but eager at least. The moan she makes when her taste buds begin mapping his mouth is enough to make him wrap his arms around her and pull her in good and close.

“I like that,” she declares when they pull away, and Hopper can’t hide the smile that stretches across his face.

“Me too,” he admits, and she kisses him again.

She kisses him long and languidly, stroking her tongue against his until she has perfected the movement in one mere hour.

It’s a powerful thing, being the one to teach her all this. Another man would be tempted to wield his knowledge against her, but Hopper feels sick at the thought. He already feels like a sick fuck accepting her kisses, _letting her jerk him off_.

El hasn’t asked about his reaction to her rubbing his stomach—and more importantly, his dick—but he knows it’s only a matter of time before she finds the words.

Hopper is loath to explain to her anything beyond the make-out sessions they already enjoy on a nightly basis. Not out of a desire to keep her in the dark, but the innate knowledge that she will most certainly want to try anything he explains to her, and he isn’t sure either of them (but especially El) are ready to attempt what this lengthy prelude is leading to.

But the time to share more with Eleven is coming, judging by the way she acts when he kisses her. Always one to push boundaries, Eleven has started to climb onto his lap as of late, sometimes curling up on his knees, other times straddling his thighs with what can only be an unspoken, bone-deep understanding originating from their ancestors of happens between man and woman.

It’s one of these nights, after their lesson on the latest word of the day has ended, when Eleven has draped a knee to either side of his hips, and she sits back on his knees, wearing one of his shirts and some pyjama pants he’d picked up at a second-hand store for her months ago.

Her hands are petting his chest, climbing up and down from shoulders to belly button like he’s a damn cat. Where she got the idea that he’s her pet is beyond him, but it’d be a lie to say he doesn’t like it, doesn’t enjoy the feeling of her soft hands massaging him.

Hopper knows she is becoming more aware of her body, of her wants and desires and, yes, of her sexuality. He knows it in the way she writhes against him, the way she squirms about as if seeking something, something she doesn’t quite understand.

On this night, when she’s on his lap and draped against his chest, El starts making little noises in the back of her throat. Tiny sounds at first, noises of frustration as her tongue plunders every crevice of his mouth; Hopper likes letting her take charge, likes watching her discover what pleasures her the most.

But between the sounds she’s making at the way she licking at him, his restraint, tenuous to begin with, is holding on by a thread.

When El rolls her hips a little, a slight jerk of her pelvis, the noise of frustration turns to relief, and before either of them know it, she’s practically dry-humping his thighs, seeking the friction her body has been telling her to find and taking it where she can get. The noises of frustration turn to softer sounds of pleasure, and though he knows she’ll never find her completion like this, it’s suddenly all too much – the sound of her moans and the feel of her pelvis bearing down on his legs and the taste of her mouth as she kisses him recklessly.

His precious grip on reality snaps. Before he can stop himself or bother to think twice about it, Hopper is seizing El by the hips and redirecting her thrusts so she’s pushing against his belly, so that when she slides back and forth, it’s against his aching hard-on.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck,” Hopper rips his mouth away and tilts her back, only slightly, only so he can look at her as she moves. It’s clumsy, of course, and he can tell she’s tiring out. The high she’s looking for hasn’t happened, and already she’s started to feel frustrated with the slow build, with the feeble tightening between her legs. His ex, Diane—she hadn’t ever been able to get off without the use of hands rubbing directly on her clit.

But Hopper is _there_ , Hopper doesn’t need her hands squeezing him. It’s like a phantom feeling of sliding into her pussy as she sinks onto him, and it is more than enough. He encourages her desperately, _stupidly,_ palming her thighs with either hand and thrusting up as she comes down every time. The chafing is almost too much, almost too painful to work through, but in the end, _yes,_ he fucking does it, comes in his pants once more as he tucks his chin into his chest, studies the curve of El’s breasts through the fabric of his shirt, and groans, brows furrowed and mouth twisted into a frown of sinful pleasure.

When he’s done, when the moment has passed once again, it takes everything in Hopper not to flee like he did before. He still feels like a bit of an asshole for how he reacted that night, and he doesn’t want her to think he’s ashamed of her or anything (he is far more ashamed of himself).

El smiles at him, and she might be oblivious to the specifics of what happened but she clearly knows enough to tell that she did something good, something great even.

“What was that?” she asks softly, and Hopper just stares up at her, panting.

“Was it the same as what happened before, after I gave you the Eggos?” El’s head tilts at him, her question half-whispered, like she’s worried it will make him up and leave.

Which, okay, maybe she has reason to be worried, but he’s long given up the thought of telling her no. He just can’t. It’s wrong and sick and fucked up, but he can’t stop kissing her and he can’t stop letting her touch and pet and stroke him like he’s her damn puppy.

He likes it all too much.

“Yeah, that. Well,” Hopper scratches the back of his head, torn. He doesn’t know how to have this conversation, but he also doesn’t want to lie to her. She should probably know the sexual workings of a man and a woman, and there is no one but Hopper to explain it to her.

She slides off his lap and tucks herself in next to him, staring and waiting with patient eyes for this magical explanation he is supposed to give.

“Alright. So men, like me, have…” he pauses, fighting back his embarrassment, “ _penises._ And women have, um…” Hopper sighs loudly, cursing himself in his head. If he’d just said no in the first place, they probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.

But then, who else could El ask? He could get her a book, but anything he’d find would probably be too technical for her, and it wouldn’t explain things without some religious cockamamie that Hopper could just never get into, even as a kid.

“Women have vaginas,” he says carefully, but of course, El doesn’t laugh or giggle when he says this, and why on earth would she? She has no clue why any of this might be awkward for him.

With that thought in mind, it’s easier to plough on and explain things with a straight face.

“I guess the biggest reason for, ah, _penises and vaginas_ , is to procreate. Make babies,” he adds quickly, before El can ask. “You see…”

And it takes nearly an hour for him to explain how men’s bodies have this liquid inside called semen and women have little eggs, and when a man and woman have sex, the semen is released into the woman and sometimes, if you aren’t wearing a _condom_ (that conversation takes a whole other ten minutes), the woman can get pregnant.

_You just gave her the sex talk._ Hopper is disgusted at himself, not for explaining the workings of what happens between a man and woman, but because he desperately wants to be the one to _show_ her these things now, too.

“So you have sex…to make a baby?”

Hopper gives a half-nod, half-no. “Kinda. Some people just do it because it feels good.”

El doesn’t look surprised at this. “It feels good,” she agrees solemnly. “You felt…very good, on the couch? Just now?”

“Yeah.” Hopper feels the back of his neck get warm. “You, uh, you made me…finish.” And he feels stupid at once for using that word choice, because she’s got no idea what he’s talking about. His next words are spoken quickly, almost under his breath. “You made my penis…spill its semen.”

El nods to herself, taking in this information with all her usual grace and solemnity.

After a moment, when no more questions come out, Hopper says, “Is that all the questions tonight?”

El thinks about it for a moment. “Can I see?”

His heart flip-flops and bounces up and down, excited and terrified.

“See what?”

El’s eyebrows pull together, making that face that tells him he is incompetent and unworthy of being in her presence.

“See your penis spill its semen.”

Hopper chokes and gapes, mouth flapping like a fish out of water for a solid minute. “You, ah… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hopper says carefully, hating himself with every word.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Hopper says, floundering for a suitable reason. In the end, he tries to tell the truth, like always. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, El.” Dark brown eyes stared up at him incomprehensively.

“I’m the first man you’ve been in contact with since…since you left Hawkins Lab.”

“Papa,” El clarifies.

“That’s right. And I just… I don’t want you to make decisions you may not really understand yet. I don’t want you to feel like you have to pick _me,_ when there are plenty of men who would line up at your door to be with you.”

That much is, for the most part, true. El is a lovely woman and, with the soft weight gaining around her ribs and thighs, she’s exceptionally beautiful too. The thought just makes Hopper feel like shit though, knowing she could do so much better than a broken-down old drunk like himself.

But Eleven frowned deeply at his words, looking almost hurt, and her hand closed over his wrist before he could stand and leave.

“I want _you,”_ she says firmly, as adamant as the grip on his arm. Her hand slides up his elbow to his shoulder to his cheek, and she cups his jaw, rubbing her thumb over his cheek sweetly. “I do not _have_ to see other men to choose you. I want you.”

Her words stir some long-forgotten feeling in his chest, making him exhale shakily. It takes him a while to identify the feeling, and when he does, he shoves it down a hole as far as it will go, praying it doesn’t resurface any time soon. “Well…I want you too, El.”

And the smile he gets maybe makes it worth being damned to hell.

“So can I see your—”

“No,” he blurts out, then reluctantly tacks on, “Not tonight.”


	4. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven experience good old Aunt Flow and guess who comes to comfort her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all want the slow burn, y'all gonna GET the slow burn.
> 
> Also, apologies for my lateness. My laptop BROKE. Can you believe the shitty luck of it all??? I've commandeered my sister's laptop just to write and post this for you.

El wakes to the feeling of hot pokers jabbing her in the belly and blood trickling down her thighs.

_Oh no…_

She’s not unfamiliar with getting her period, of course. El can remember very clearly the day she first bled in Hawkins Lab, can remember being given a rag and some soap and being ordered to clean her own mess, sequestered for five days every time she bled. They had offered her nothing—no comfort, no explanation, no tools. All she knew was that she would bleed once a month for the rest of her foreseeable life and that was that.

It wasn’t until she started living with Hopper that things changed, back when he first heard her sniffling in pain and misery in the bathroom where she had locked herself in, ready to be alone for the next five days. He had asked what was wrong and she had told him in the same poorly formed explanation the men at the lab had offered a child. Hopper had been furious that day, but not with her, he said. With her father, and all the men and women who served him. For the cruelty they had wrought on her. Hopper had provided her a minimal explanation at the time, simple and surface-level, but it was more than anyone told her before.

He made it clear that it was a natural thing that women went through every month. It isn’t any less painful to bleed once a month now, but it is at least reassuring to know that she isn’t dying or abnormal in that sense.

The month of February is particularly painful for her womb, and she spends most of the first day of her menstrual cycle abed, not even coming out to say bye to Hopper as she’s done almost every morning for the past two weeks. He must think she’s asleep, for he slips out of their cottage without a word or a whisper. And when she hears the engine roar and the tires roll down the driveway, El feels inexplicably sad and sorry for herself—and _angry_ , too. Angry that he had left without checking on her. Angry that Hopper gets to leave to do whatever fun things he does when he isn’t with her.

Mostly angry that she is alone. Again.

Pitiful and resentful, Eleven hunkers down in the bed after pressing the sticky side of the sanitary napkin to the inside of her underwear. She buries herself under no less than three blankets and lays on her side. Her knees tuck into her chest and her arms wrap around her belly, massaging her tummy to try to abate some of the cramping, though it is mostly useless.

She doesn’t move all day.

The sun rises and hovers and sets without any commotion at all. El levitates what she can and makes do with what she cannot. Clean clothes, more blankets, Eggos. It is altogether a profoundly miserable day, though she doesn’t have the vocabulary to express this.

When Hopper’s truck pulls into the driveway, El is ready to burst into either tears or screams, she hasn’t made her mind up yet. His boots clunk-clunk up to the cabin, and he taps the toes to the doorframe a few times to shake the snow off before knocking their secret knock.

For a serious moment, El considers leaving him in the cold even though he’s done absolutely nothing _wrong_ besides leaving her alone.

In the end, she opens the door with a flick of her wrist and pulls the blankets over her head, sniffling.

“El?” His voice is cautious and concerned all at once. “Honey?”

At that—the sound of his name for her she takes to be something of kindness and sweetness and _good_ —her anger caves and melts until she’s nothing but a puddle of tears.

“In here,” she calls tremulously, and even though they haven’t spent much time (or any time) in each other’s bedrooms, Hopper accepts the invitation without question.

“Hey you,” he says, no doubt seeing nothing but a lump of miserable, achy blankets. “You okay?”

 _“No,”_ El replies sourly, and then starts to cry. “Everything h-hurts.”

“You’re hurting?” Hopper walks into the room then, and crosses over to the side of the bed she’s facing. A hand reaches into the lump of blankets and pulls until Eleven’s eyes and nose and mouth are all exposed.

Scrunched up like she is, there’s plenty of room for him to sit down, and he does so with a frown. One big hand cups the crown of her head and a thumb rubs her temples, soft and slow. “You need me to pick up something for you? Is it the flu?”

“Period,” she corrects glumly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Hopper makes a noise of understanding, and clucks his tongue sympathetically at her. “Ah. Right.” He surprises her then by cupping her cheek with his palm, and she does her best to tuck her face in close, to make him keep his hand there forever.

“You know, there’s things you can do to make it…not hurt so much. So I’ve been told,” he adds with a slight grimace that El ignores.

She grabs onto his words and grips them for dear life. “Make it not hurt?”

“Yeah, not so bad.” He’s still moving his thumb over her temple, and even though it has no effect whatsoever on her tummy, it helps.

“Like what?”

“Well, like hot water bottles. Drinking lots of water. Eating dark chocolate. Exercise too, although…I can’t imagine that sounds too appealing at the moment.” He smiles at his joke, and El feels the burning desire to smack it off his face for a split second, but then his thumb changes direction and she forgets all about her irritation. “But heat always helps. So does mast…” He abruptly trails off, mouth pursing.

El blinks up at him. “What?”

Hopper sighed. “I was gonna say masturbation. Don’t ask,” he says suddenly, before Eleven can even think to question the word. “Tomorrow. I’ll explain it tomorrow. Think about the other things I told you instead.”

“Okay,” she says, yawning.

“Okay?”

“Make it not hurt,” El says, looking up at him trustingly. “Hot water bottles and drinking water and eating chocolate.”

He opened his mouth as though to say something contrarily, but changed his mind midway. “Alright, honey. You wanna come sit up on the couch? Change of scenery could do you good.”

Eleven wants to tell him that if she wanted to sit on the couch, she would’ve done it already, but he’s being very kind to her _and_ he was home on time. Those things count for something, surely.

Hopper helps peel the blankets off her and gets her on her feet. Eleven wears nothing but an extra-large shirt from a second-hand clothing store Hopper had picked up for her, meant to be slept in. It is loose-fitting and long-sleeved, making it warm without putting pressure on her tummy.

Without a word, Eleven sits herself on the couch and lets Hopper wrap blankets around her before he takes off into the kitchen to fetch the things he promised. After changing out of his work clothes, he comes back to her with a few squares of dark chocolate on a plate and a tall glass of ice cold water and some damp rags that have been soaked in hot water.

“Scootch,” he orders, waving a paw at her so he is sitting against the arm of the couch and she has her head in his lap. “Better?”

El’s hand rummages somewhere over head until— _aha!_ Her fingers enclose around his wrist and tug, until she has dropped his hand back onto her head, the silent order plainly obvious.

“Okay then,” he laughs, and the gentle touches start again, firmer this time. His thumb and fingers move in circles against her forehead and the soft spot above her ear.

They watch what Hopper calls “shit-TV” for an hour, their time only interrupted by Hopper getting up to microwave their dinners. El pokes at her plate for five minutes before giving up entirely. Hopper eats most of her share.

“Still sore?” his question is kind and genuine, like he really wants to know how she is.

Eleven had sat up to try to eat her dinner, but as soon as he finishes both of their plates, she crawls back into his arms where it is warm and familiar, and he accepts her without complaint. This time she lays on her back so she can look up at him.

Because she’s on her back staring up, his face is turned about, and his chin doubles when he tucks it down to look at her. Despite the absurdity of how he looks, her heart warms at the sight of him, and she's reminded of how lonely she's felt all day.

It seems a shame to waste their time together with her being acting cranky.

Eleven reached out and fluttered her fingers over his beard, sliding her hand down into the first button of his shirt, which she unbuttoned with minimal struggle.

Then she undid the second and third buttons, and though her eyes stayed fixed to her hands and the tiny white buttons she was working at, she was painfully aware of the way he was staring at her as she moved.

When she is done, when his shirt is open enough, El slides a palm over his belly and along his ribcage, rolling onto her side, cradled tight in his embrace.

“Tell me about your day,” she says with a yawn.

Under her hands, his belly expands and collapses with each inhale and exhale. His voice is low and gruff and makes her think of what a bear might sound like, if bears could talk that is. The likeness between Hopper and a bear is strong. She’s seen photos of bears plenty of times since she moved in with Hopper. His chest is certainly almost as furry as a bear’s.

She tunes in and out as Hopper speaks, letting his voice wash over her in waves. “…couple of kids playing pranks on this crotchety old bastard…never thought I’d have to ask them…parents just about hit the roof…my old man would have never…pretty quiet otherwise, but that’s okay…”

Eventually, Eleven starts to study his belly button and ceases to listen to him altogether. It’s such a funny little thing, a belly button. She hadn’t known what to call it until she had left Hawkins Lab. _Belly button._

Without pausing to think it through, she sticks her pinky finger into his as far as it can comfortably go.

“Are you even listening?” Hopper asks, but there’s no bite to his words. Instead, she sees him grinning at her, dimple tucked into his cheek.

“No,” she admits freely.

“Well, get your finger outta’ there. Christ only knows what you'll find.” he teases, and Eleven smiles mischievously before leaning in and sticking her tongue into the tiny puckered hole in his tummy—

Only to be shoved back with a barking laugh. “Get off me, you loon.”

Eleven doesn’t laugh—she doesn’t ever laugh—but her heart feels light and giddy. Her cramps have abated enough to forget about them. Maybe that’s just the effect Hopper has on her.

Eleven hobbles to her feet, but Hopper doesn’t move a muscle, reclined comfortably on the couch, practically submerged into the squishy cushions with his shirt unbuttoned and the faintest glimmer of her saliva on his belly.

That feeling she’s labelled as _desire_ swells in her chest unexpectedly. Eleven doesn’t understand it fully yet. It comes at completely random times. Sometimes she’ll want to kiss him when he’s eating Eggos across the table from her, other times it’s when he’s reading the paper.

For whatever reason, she especially delights in trying to distract him from whatever task he’s set out to do. There’s something about getting him all riled up—“El, I’m fucking trying to shave here”—and making him cave to whatever demand she has of him that makes her feel _good,_ feel _powerful_.

But there’s also the times when she looks at him and just wants to be near him. Like when he comes home after a long day, and she makes him sit down so she can climb onto his lap and cling to him "like a monkey," he ribs her lightly. Or after they wake up in their respective beds and he makes cocoa for her and coffee for himself, and she’ll creep into the kitchen and snake both arms around his waist when he’s not looking to hug him tight from behind.

She doesn’t understand those urges either.

Right now feels like a mixture of both. The overwhelming desire to straddle his thighs and rock back and forth in that way that makes him sweat. And also the unbearable need to try to crawl into his skin and be as close to him as the physical limitations of the universe will allow.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, bringing her out of her reverie. She’s been standing there, hands on hips, staring at him undecidedly for several solid minutes.

Eleven doesn’t answer, only reaches out to brush a hand over both his cheeks and taking a moment to smooth his hair back out of his face. He’ll probably get a trim soon. She knows he doesn’t like it to get too long.

“I can’t decide,” she begins uncertainly, “if I want to…kiss you or… Or do this,” and she crouches down and leans in until her nose is tucked into his neck and her arms are pinned between their chests. He wraps his arms about her like he always does and hums in understanding. 

“Intimacy,” he whispers to her.

“What?”

“Intimacy,” he says again, and presses her away enough so he can look at her while he talks. “It’s when you want to be near a person and be close to them, talk to them, share private thoughts and hopes with them. That’s being intimate.”

“Like sex?” she asks, and Hopper makes a face.

“It _can_ be intimate. Depends on the sex,” he admits. “Sometimes sex can just be a physical thing. No feelings or love—just desire. For fun. Sometimes it’s intimate, if it’s with someone you love.”

“Which is better?”

“In my experience,” Hopper says with that low, deep voice of his. “Intimate sex. By a mile.”

El doesn’t say anything for a long while afterwards. She’s not sure what questions she wants to ask, not sure she wants to know the answers to all of them.

So for the first time in a long time, she says nothing, sitting in silence with her head on his shoulder as she mulls his words in her head, their breaths the only sound in the room.

“I like intimacy with you,” El finally says shyly.

“I like it, too.” Hopper presses a kiss into her hair. “How are those cramps of yours?”

“Better,” El says. She draped her legs over his knees, tucked under his arm. “Still hurts.”

“Alright. C’mere.” Hopper, who has never so much as _asked_ to touch her anywhere besides her face and hands, tugs her sideways until she’s back in his lap once more before lifting the hem of her shirt enough to slide a giant paw under and cup her aching belly.

And now it’s him rubbing soothing circles onto her skin, him petting her stomach like a kitten. The sensation makes her stomach unclench and eases the pain significantly.

It feels _amazing._

It feels so good in fact that Eleven thinks she might just demand he stay home with her tomorrow and do this for her all day. Her eyelids start to feel heavy, and her breath grows slow and deep.

Hopper is suddenly chuckling, and he says, “Enjoying yourself?” in that smart, smug way of his.

She’s too relaxed by the touch to bother sassing him.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, then, “You think you’re ever gonna get up?”

“No,” she says confidently.

“Mkay. Sweet dreams, hon.”

And Eleven just hums contentedly as sleep consumes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my fav chapter but I think a necessary one in creating more of an emotional level to their relationship. 
> 
> Also. You guys are my favourite bunch of kinky weirdos, I love you all SO MUCH. Like holy heck. These comments are gold and I cherish every damn one.


	5. Talking nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm, I'll just leave this chapter a fun surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushed, messy, didn't know where I was going when I started writing this. 
> 
> AKA what else is new? 
> 
> (Thank you all for your patience waiting for this chapter. Hope this one suffices until next one!)

It's getting warmer.

Eleven knows it is because her breath doesn't fog up against the window pane anymore, and she doesn't need to wear multiple shirts to bed.

For one who hasn't experienced much sunshine before, watching the ground thaw and the trees come back to slow, creaking, groaning life is the most incredible thing. For hours she sits with her chair facing outside, never daring to openly defy Hopper’s orders, though there are times she is so tempted.

[So very tempted.]

Birds and squirrels and other critters Eleven is learning the names of begin frolicking in the forest surrounding their home. Raccoons threaten to eat their garbage and squirrels gorge themselves on the seed in bird feeder Hopper set up so Eleven could have something to watch besides the TV.

It all gets terribly boring within a week or so.

“What am I supposed to do all day?” she demands of Hopper in a fit of rage. She had spent the past hour trying to convince him to skip work for the day and stay in bed with her -- they do that now, sleep next to each other sometimes -- but he'd been so insistent about it. Irritatingly persistent.

“Practice your letters,” he suggests with one boot out the door. “Eat Eggos all day. Make up a new language -- I don't know, El. Just keep outta trouble. And stay inside,” he growls, wagging a finger at her as though he can read her mind and see how dangerously tempted she has become.

“Yes,” she mumbles sourly and secretly vows not to let him spill his seed later.

When he's gone, she stokes the fire and watches TV, letting the flames burn and lick and crackle for so long that soon, the cabin is sweltering.

“Stay inside,” Eleven huffs angrily to herself as she steps out of her shirt and the denim jeans Hopper had gotten for her. “Stay inside.”

If she is not going outside and there is no one coming in, El hardly can see the point to suffocating in her clothing any longer.

Besides. Hopper will probably be shocked to see her naked when he gets back. And Eleven likes shocking him. Not like jumping out from behind a corner, not scaring him. More like when she kissed him for the first time. Or when she licks his neck. He makes a funny face and sometimes, if she's lucky, he'll make a sound that rumbles in his chest and makes her knees quiver and her tummy--

_There_.

She feels it again. That strange, insistent sensation building at the apex of her thighs; she’s felt it before, when she kisses up on Hopper. It's been a slow discovery, occurring in such gradual stages that she didn't even notice the feeling the first several times they kissed.

Now it's all she can think about. It's beckons her, coaxing her and encouraging her to walk her hand down her belly and…

And what? Eleven doesn't know what she's supposed to do with the feeling, she just knows she feels something, something that has only just begun to reveal itself to her.

Normally she would ask Hopper. She asks him about virtually everything nowadays, and his patience with her learning has been endless. He is kind and gentle, and making him laugh is Eleven's favorite pastime.

But asking him about this feels strange. It's her body -- should she not know how to navigate her own needs?

Uncertainty plucks relentlessly at Eleven, but she beats it back fiercely. What better time to start learning about her body than today?

Eleven heads to the bedroom she's claimed as her own to stretch out on the mattress, naked as the day she was born. She hasn't spent much time undressed, and she’s spent even less time examining her body. Even Hopper hasn't seen her nude yet (and the yet makes Eleven’s heart flutter).

Some natural instinct makes El’s hands pause in their journey south, and her eyes flutter shut as slender fingers touch gently at the collar of her neck and the soft swell of her breasts. Eleven's heart races even with such an innocent touch, and she shivers, though the air is quite warm.

Her fingers gently squeeze at the tip of her breasts, where her skin becomes a deeper shade of pinkish-purple and is so very sensitive that she's always avoided touching them.

But her fear seems silly now that she's actually pinching at them, for it makes the pressure between her legs tighten and surge in the most delectable way imaginable, and her breath grows quite short. On their own volition, her hips lift upwards, seeking the phantom touch of another person.

She imagines Hopper standing in the room then, sees his face in her mind as clear as day. Bearded chin, thin lips, heavy brow. Dark, intense eyes that follow her even after the lights go out. Firm shoulders and a soft belly that tenses under her touch.

Eleven moans involuntarily. Her hands abandon their post and quickly plunge into the fold between her thighs, where she finds warmth and, surprisingly, wetness.

It's a strange exploration, letting her fingers rove about the slick skin. She imagines Hopper touching her there, and moans again.

It's so easy to envision him stretched out on top of her, with his lips nibbling at her neck while his hands stroke intimately at the folds of skin between her thighs. She knows him well enough to conjure his voice in her head, to pretend he's truly standing before her in his beige slacks and button-down shirt, as he walks in with his matching hat in hand.

_“Whatcha doing, hon?”_ He might say with a smile, if he could see her now.

_“I don't know,”_ she would counter shyly. _"Show me?”_

Eleven gradually pinpoints the area of skin that tingles the most, a small round little nub of flesh that jolts every time she presses against it. It doesn't hurt, though her wrist is growing tired.

The vision of Hopper talking to her, kissing her, coaxing her on, keeps her working through the exhaustion - and it's not without reward, blessedly.

Everything builds. She doesn't know how to describe the sensation; it's like pain, causes involuntary reactions like a sharp buck of her hips or the strange mewling cry she's omitting with increasing frequency.

But this is, in the same breath, the farthest thing from pain she's ever felt. Her body clenches harder than it ever has, as though bracing for something, and El gives up a startled cry when the tightening sensation gives way to a glorious flood of pleasure.

The pulsating abates and fades into mild tingles, weak aftershocks from an all-powerful explosion. The world comes back into focus. And then, sprawled on her back with arms and legs splayed out like a starfish, she falls asleep.

*

Hours later, Eleven finds herself in bed trying to replicate this morning’s pleasure.

If she were being honest, she would say the timing is deliberate. The hour was late when she started, and it isn't long before she can hear knocking on the door. It's the secret knock, the one she hears once a day.

For the first time in a long time, she doesn't get up and run at the chance for human comfort.

Rather, her fingers keep at rubbing persistently, sliding inexpertly over her own damp skin.

“Hopper,” she whispers in giddy anticipation, and the front door unlatches with a click.

_“El?”_ He moves through the cabin cautiously. She closed the door to her room most of the way, but it's open a sliver, open enough to look inviting.

For a moment, she considers telling him to leave her alone, considers closing the door with a jerk of her chin. She even considers stopping what she's doing and getting dressed before he can see her.

But the thought passes without much deliberation on her part. She knew, deep down, what life with Hopper has been leading to. The thought of bearing herself to him is so natural, so simple.

Before she can second guess her decision, El opens her mouth, covers a breast in one hand and keeps touching herself with the other. “In here,” she calls. Her heart is practically ready to leap out of her mouth, she's so nervous.

She's isn't entirely sure which situation makes her more nervous - that he rejects her unspoken offer or that he might say yes.

Boots clunk along the floor. Hopper is speaking, tiredly recounting whatever reason he has for being late (she didn't even notice to be honest), and El closes her eyes as she hears him get closer.

“ _... pain in the ass, but it's over at least. So anyways, what did you do all d--”_

Eleven doesn't look at him right away, but she hears him push open the door that was already open a fraction, hears his word catch in his throat like something has strangled him.

When she finally makes eye contact with him, her fingers press slowly down onto the nub that is almost too sensitive to touch now, and she moans loudly, embarrassingly so.

“Fuck,” Hopper chokes out at last. He's got one hand bracing against the door, the other lump at his side. “What… Fuck.” He swallowed. “Fuck.”

One foot shifted as though he wanted to enter her room, but then slid back to its original place. Hopper’s body tilted back and forth ever so slightly, like he was fighting to stay outside but he wanted to go in oh so desperately.

“What…” Eleven can see a million questions in his eyes, even if she doesn’t know what any of them are. “When did you… _What?”_

She sucks in a deep breath, shakily. “Every time I think about you, I feel so… I hurt. But it is good?”

“Arousal?” Hopper asks gently, always gently. His voice strains terribly, and he leans heavily on the wall holding him upright. “Like you want… You want me to do what you’re doing to yourself?”

El didn’t have to think twice about it. “Yes,” she whispers, and rolls onto her side to face him. He blinks as both breasts come into vision, shudders a little. El’s face wrinkles in concern. “Is it wrong?”

“No.” Hopper takes a sudden step inside the room, shifts backwards as though to leave, then puts another foot forward. “Remember what I said? Sex isn’t bad. You aren’t bad, not for wanting this.”

“Intimacy?” she asks, and he smiled a little.

“Not quite,” Hopper mutters, running a hand over his wide, bearded jaw. Eleven swallowed indelicately, and moved her fingers a touch faster. It’s so much easier to imagine things with him standing in front of her, although his reaction makes it challenging to continue.

“Will…” Eleven trails off shyly, and plucks up her courage once more. “Will you help? Please,” she adds on the word she doesn’t understand fully, but knows to say when she wants something.

Hopper has been walking slowly towards her this whole time, moving to the chair at her bedside. With a groan, he sits down, never taking his eyes off her. Her fingers are getting slick now, almost too slick to get friction against the tiny button of flesh she’s found.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” he says at length, adjusting his pants with both hands. “You keep going, and tell me whatever you feel like saying. Even if you think it’s nonsense. You know what nonsense means?”

“Non...sense?”

“Means silly. You don’t have to feel shy about anything you’re thinking, mkay?”

“Yes,” El whispers, but she’s not sure she can do what he’s asked. To say what she’s thinking, what she’s hoping for.

“I want you to touch me,” El blurts out, and gets a smile in response. “Please.”

For a minute, the sheriff doesn't move, plainly considering the request. But then he touches the tip of his fingers to her cheek and chin, and rubs slowly. “One day soon," he says carefully, "I’ll touch you and kiss you all over, the way you deserve. I promise you that. But tonight is just about you, hon. It’s about you learning what feels good, what doesn’t feel so good. Whatever you want.”

“You,” she says at once. “I...I want you.”

“Oh yeah?” Hopper sits back and pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it slowly. Shadows and flames flicker near his mouth as he inhales, then exhales a puff. “Want me to do what, El?”

“Like this,” she says, and her thighs roll away from each other just a bit, just enough to reveal her hand better.

Hopper’s eyes leave her face, visibly torn from gaze, to see what she’s doing, to follow the way she clumsily slides her palm over the knot of skin known as the clit, even though Eleven doesn’t yet know that.

“I can do that,” he agrees with false bravado, after eyeing the lengthy demonstration from the young psychic herself. “What else?”

“And...and I want you to kiss me,” she requests, feeling bolder. Her skin is growing flushed, either from the embarrassment of his attention or the physical exertion of moving her hand like this for so long. “And I want you to pinch me here.” She takes a nipple between her forefinger and thumb like this morning and squeezes, hard enough to make herself gasp.

“Just like that?” he asks, almost sounding bemused. “Not too painful for you, is it?”

Her eyes began to close. She was getting close, so very close to the euphoria she found this morning. “Just like that,” she repeats breathlessly. “Oh… Hopper. Oh, Hopper.”

“I’m here,” he chokes out, and Eleven feels rather than sees his hand reach out and clasp her upper arm firmly. “Is that good? You feel good?”

“Yes,” Eleven says, and wishes she had the words today more than ever. The right words, not just yes and no and good and bad. She wishes so very much that she could tell him how her body was cresting into continual bliss and how she was trying to hold off on finding that high if only to ride out this part for as long as humanly possible. She wishes she could tell him how her limbs were beginning to quiver, not from fatigue but anticipation and excitement.

El doesn’t know how to tell him that her moans are not caused from pain but a deep primal need to let out the buildup of tension rising in the center of her body, pulling her in. She can only lay there and whimper, call out to him as the feelings become too much, too great for her to hold back.

“I’ll be god-damned,” she hears him say, over the sound of her warbling cries of his name. “You’re so fucking beautiful, El. I’m right here, I got ya. Just let go. Let go, sweetheart. Let me see you come.”

There’s something about his voice -- something about being ordered by him -- that brings about a white hot explosion in her brain and sets off a trigger of reactions stemming from between her legs and spreading outwards from there.

Eleven clenches her knees together, puffs out high, needy calls of Hopper’s name for reasons she doesn’t fully get yet, and then, when all is said and done, she slumps back into the pillows. All tension leaves her body, and if Hopper didn’t know better, he might suspect her of sleeping.

Jim Hopper puts out the stub of his cigarette with a quick pinch of his fingers. “Well, _fuck.”_

Eleven looked up at him, panting, limp as cooked noodles. “Good?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Hopper smiled, eyes crinkled at the corners a little. “Real good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post yet mostly because I was suffering writer's block, but I was feeling charitable (also horny) so I figured fuck it. 
> 
> Don't be surprised if I make some serious edits to this chapter. It feels rushed even as I post it, but I wanted to get you guys SOMETHING to read haha ;) 
> 
> Thanks again for all the lovely comments last chapter - you're all freaky darlings and I love you <3 
> 
> Ciao,  
> Portia

**Author's Note:**

> Fun joke: 
> 
> What do Eleven and I have in common? 
> 
> We both want to call Hopper 'daddy'.
> 
> Me: *laughs awkwardly*  
> You: *either grimaces, mutters disapprovingly, or winks in understanding*


End file.
